


Tag, You're It!

by mishmashfandom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (stop judging me), Canon-setting, Clarke is drugged, F/M, January, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, References to Drugs, Season 3, as in, drw, it's a thing, with sex drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:57:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishmashfandom/pseuds/mishmashfandom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy can't believe he's stuck watching over a sex-drugged Clarke, in the middle of freaking no-where, because the fucking Ice Nation thought it'd weaken Clarke's position as Wanheda. Fucking typical...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tag, You're It!

Octavia votes “leave her behind” which makes Bellamy turn his death-glare on her. The bitch doesn’t even look apologetic; she just shrugs, like leaving a teammate behind is a perfectly understandable suggestion.

Clarke stopped being able to move about ten minutes earlier, which is what has sparked the group’s current argument.

Because Clarke had been poisoned this morning during breakfast, with nothing less than what appeared to be some blend of mind altering drugs and freaking girl-Viagra. Clarke had started complaining about being hot, then thirsty, then hot, and then she’d gotten a completely panicked expression on her face, moaned loudly, said ‘oh oh’ and fainted. They’d dragged her to a clearing in the middle of the woods, made a (sort of) bed for her, and were now deliberating their next move.

“A lot of people are after Wanheda, but I can only think of one enemy that could possibly gain anything from this,” Lincoln says. “Ice Nation,” Bellamy mutters, and Lincoln nods.

“A display of this nature could weaken her status as a leader amongst my people” the older man continues. “If Clarke is seen out of her mind and unable to control herself? They’d think us without leader. We’d be under attack within a week,” Lincoln concludes.

Monty nods. “Well that settles that then; we’ll stay here until the drugs are out of her system.”

Outnumbered, Octavia sullenly agrees to let Lincoln scoop out the area, while the rest of them stays back.

“I still say we just leave her here,” she whispers, so that only Bellamy can hear.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but…”

Their argument is rudely interrupted by a loud, drawn-out moan. Bellamy’s almost afraid to look, and with good reason it turns out.

Clarke is still lying on the makeshift-bed, but she’s no longer unconscious. Instead she’s twisting and turning, shamelessly rubbing her thighs together, while her hands trail all over her body. She’s biting her lip, and her eyes are slammed shut, and she basically looks like she’s been dragged out of just about every wet dream Bellamy has ever had.

“Okay, I’m not up for this shit,” Octavia declares, and Bellamy’s embarrassed to admit that he startles. Octavia sends him a knowing look, which doesn’t do anything for the flush that has been steadily spreading over his cheeks and ears. He shoots her what’s supposed to be an unimpressed glare, but probably ends up more in the pathetic category. Octavia’s laugh hangs in the air even after she leaves the camp -side. “I’ll take first patrol!” she yells over her shoulder. “And second. And third,” she mumbles to herself, and picks up speed. She wants to be as far away from the sounds that are bound to happen.

Monty clears his throat, determinedly trying to look anywhere but Clarke. “I, um. What do we do?” he asks, uncertainly. Miller’s standing as far away from Clarke as possible without removing himself from the conversation entirely. He’s watching the conversation with what Bellamy can only describe as a ‘pinched’ look on his face.

“We’ll have to take turns watching over her, I guess,” he answers. It goes without saying that Clarke can’t be left alone, no matter how much they want to do just that. They’re in the middle of the wilderness, and Clarke’s a wanted woman. No, leaving her alone is not on the table. Monty’s apparently thinking the same thing, and is about to nod, when Clarke moans again, and all three of them subconsciously turn their heads towards her.

All three of them immediately do a full body-turn. Let’s just say that Clarke’s hand is no longer wandering.

Miller whimpers. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this, okay? It’s not natural for this much gay to be close to that much woman-business. You’re on your own with this one.” And then he promptly follows in Octavia’s footsteps, disappearing into the forest.

Bellamy locks eyes with Monty. “Don’t. You. Dare,” he growls. Monty nervously shakes his head, even as he’s slowly trying to back away from Bellamy, and, coincidentally, Clarke. “I’m not,” he says. “I wouldn’t,” he says, and Bellamy’s not sure whether Monty’s trying to convince Bellamy, or himself.

“I swear to God, Monty…”he starts, but Clarke’s moaning has reached  a new level of loud and pleasured, and despite actually knowing better, Bellamy looks.

He shouldn’t have. Not only because Clarke has apparently abandoned all sense of decency and is now openly spreading her legs, pants and panties lying off to the side, and she’s fucking down on – holy fucking shit – three fingers, while the other hand is somewhere under her shirt (maybe she’s twisting her nipples? It would seem like something she might – no, bad Bellamy, stop thinking about what Clarke may or may not like in bed), but because when Bellamy tears his gaze from her, it’s to the sight of Monty running away.

“Coward!” he yells after his (former) best friend.

“Tag, you’re it!” Monty yells back, and fuck everything, Bellamy needs new friends.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy resolutely does not look at Clarke again. He firmly places himself a good distance away from Clarke’s makeshift-bed, his back turned on her and the whole ordeal.

“Stupid, fucking Ice Nation,” he mutters under his breath, desperately trying to block out the sounds coming from behind him. He’s unsuccessful, which only worsens his mood. “Stupid, fucking plan to weaken Clarke’s position as Wanheda. She doesn’t even want to be Wanheda! Fuck!”  He glares down at his crotch, where his treacherous dick is lying half-hard. “No,” he tells it firmly.  “No-way, no sir. Don’t even fucking think about it.”

Somewhere behind him, Clarke makes a choked off sound, like she just found heaven and isn’t going to give it up anytime soon.

He thinks about it. Fuck.

It even goes as far as him imagining Clarke moaning his name out loud. How pathetic can you possibly be? What wouldn’t Clarke think, if she knew what sort of thoughts were running through his head? She’d probably be disgusted with him, she’d probably …

“Fuck, Bellamy!”

Okay, he’d definitely not imagined that one. He’d been in the middle of berating himself for fucks sake.

“Oh my God yes, just like that, Bell, just like that.”

Whatever Bellamy thought he’d see when he turned around, Clarke supporting herself on one elbow, smirking at him while leisurely fingering herself, was definitely not it.

“What are you doing?” he croaks out, his throat gone completely dry at the display.

“What does it look like?” Clarke teases. “I’m getting you to join me.”

 _She’s been drugged out of her mind_ , Bellamy has to remind herself. _She has no idea what she’s saying, and what she’s saying isn’t what she really wants._

Shaking his head takes way more effort than Bellamy is ever going to admit, and the forced casual “That’s not going to happen, princess” is a physical pain to get out of his mouth. He’s proud of himself though; for once, he’s doing the right thing.

Clarke’s hand stills for a second, and something that looks like disappointment washes over her face. It’s gone as quickly as it arrives, and Bellamy tells himself that it was never even there; just another fragment of his overworked imagination.

Clarke lays down on her back, apparently done talking to him. “Whatever, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve left me hanging, with nothing but my fingers and a nice image to comfort myself with,” Clarke says, all matter of fact, with no regard for the fact that she just short-circuited Bellamy’s brain.

“I… What?” Surely she doesn’t mean… She couldn’t possibly be talking about…

“If I tell you that you’ve been my most reoccurring jerk-off fantasy since somewhere around our first Unity Day, will you please come fuck me?” Clarke’s on her elbow again, looking at him with such intensity, Bellamy’s not quite sure if she’s joking or not. There’s no lie in her voice though, and her face shows him nothing but honesty, which quickly transform into smugness and impatience.

He’s on her before his brain can catch up to his actions, Clarke’s delighted laughter filling the air like music. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” she gloats from underneath him, and Bellamy shuts her up with a kiss.

The first thing he notices is how unnaturally hot Clarke’s lips are. But then all thoughts disappear when a small groan escapes her, and she surges up, pushing her half naked body against his fully clothed one, while snaking one hand to the back of his head, her fingers knotting themselves into his hair. He slides his legs in-between hers, gliding one hand down her silky thigh, down to the back of her knee, hitching her leg up so he can push himself closer to her. Clarke bites his lip and keens lowly. They break apart, and the look of pure lust on Clarke’s face knocks the breath out of Bellamy’s lungs. He can’t help but dip his head to steal another kiss, but Clarke’s having none of that.

“Pants,” she says, her breath coming in ragged huffs, “Off. Now.” And yeah, okay, Bellamy can get behind that notion.

They never actually get his pants off; Clarke gets completely sidetracked at the first sight of dick, and Bellamy has to fight to get even one pant-leg off. The other one, along with his underwear, is simply shoved down onto his thigh. Bellamy can’t bring himself to care though, because Clarke chooses that moment to spit into her hand, and wrap said hand around him. Her strokes are short and fast, and Bellamy has a short moment of pure panic when Clarke does this twisting thing with her hand, and Bellamy almost comes.

He pushes her hand away, and can’t help but crack a smile at the sad whining noise that spills from her lips at the action. He leans down and kisses her thoroughly, before pulling off and whispering “I wanna come inside of you,” hotly in her ear.

The statement has the desired effect; Clarke lets out a loud groan, and then proceeds to kiss him into submission, all while wrapping her legs around his lower back. When she pulls away, it’s with a saucy smirk, and a daring “We’re all waiting on you, Blake”.

And then he’s finally, _finally_ , guiding himself inside her, and she’s so hot and tight, but what really gets to him is how freaking _wet_ she is. She’s practically dripping, and it’s turning him on beyond belief. He takes a brief moment to wonder whether it’s always like this, or if it’s side-effect of the drugs still in Clarke’s system, but that train of thought is cut off when Clarke, impatient as ever, flips him over like he doesn’t weigh a thing.

Looking up at a disheveled Clarke Griffin, who has twigs and leaves in her hair, who’s naked from the bottom down, but still wearing her dark grey t-shirt, who’s looking so immensely smug , but still has a soft gleam in her eyes when she catches him looking, Bellamy can’t help but think that she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

And then she starts riding him, and Bellamy has to withdraw his previous statement, because this Clarke, face lack with pleasure, a small smile curling around her lips even as she lets of sounds of desire that makes Bellamy impossibly harder, this Clarke, who is so unashamed of taking exactly what she needs from him, that Clarke is possibly even more beautiful.

When Clarke pulls him into a sitting position, Bellamy knows that it’s all going to be over soon. The new angle is drawing even louder moans from Clarke, and Bellamy can feel her tightening around him, so he fucks up into her with renewed vigor.

It seems to do the trick. “Bellamy, oh fuck, Bellamy, I’m…” Clarke moans helplessly. Her head lolls back onto her shoulder, and Bellamy can’t help but reach up and close his mouth around the junction of her neck. Clarke apparently likes her pleasure with a little pain (and why the fuck is he not surprised), because when he bites down on her tender skin, she comes. Her body shivers and convulses, and she lets out a low, drawn-out ‘oh’ sound, like her orgasm comes as a surprise to her.  

Her body goes slack, as she slumbers down over Bellamy, hands planted firmly on his chest. Her eyes are warm and happy, as she says “Well, are you gonna come in me or not?” and Bellamy loses it. He thrusts up into her a couple of more times, and then comes with a low groan. He falls back onto his back, dragging Clarke along with him, until she’s lying on top of him. It’s relaxing in a way that it really shouldn’t be, especially when Bellamy remembers that Clarke hasn’t been just Clarke, and he suddenly feels bad.

“Stop feeling bad,” Clarke says with a yawn, and Bellamy decides that if Clarke can read minds now, he’s moving out. He looks down at her question ready on his lips.

Clarke’s face is relaxed and sated, her eyelids dropping even as she speaks. “You were freaking out about the drugs that were in my system, and consent, weren’t you?” She doesn’t even pause to allow him to answer, which speaks volumes of how well they know each other by now. “Well don’t. We both know that something was probably going to happen between us; the drugs just sped that process along. Jokes on you, Ice Nation!” she yells that last part, making Bellamy snigger into her hair. Clarke smiles at him, and it’s not awkward or weird like Bellamy had feared it would be, it's just… normal. It feels right, lying there with Clarke cuddling up to him. It feels like home.

Bellamy’s about to say as much, when he looks down and sees that Clarke has fallen asleep on him. _Just as well_ , he thinks. He never was much for pesky conversation anyways.

 

* * *

 

“Oh my God,” Monty whispers horrified.

Miller’s looking a little green around the edges, and Monty spares him a pitying glance. He just hopes the poor guy doesn’t actually throw up.

“You’d think,” Octavia begins, a very displeased expression on her face, “that this forest would be big enough for all of us. But noooo.” She turns to Lincoln. “You still not sure about getting our own place?” she snarks, and without waiting for a reply, turns around and starts making her way out of the forest.

“Where are you going?” Monty calls. “What about Bellamy and Clarke?”

“I’ve been scarred for life; a little sister should never have to experience their older brother in situations like this. I’m going home; bitches can find their own way back!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely Sarah (sarahandrelouise) for brainstorming with me and beta'ing; it's greatly appreciated <3  
> So I've started a new thing; drunk reccing and writing. It goes like this: at the end of each month, I'll choose a ship, ask you guys for prompts, get really drunk, rec a lot of fics as well as write a piece based on a prompt of my choosing. This month's ship was bellarke (obviously) and the prompt came from an anon, who wanted public sex. Hope this worked out for you, anon! :)


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